


My Father's Son

by HazelNMae



Category: Peaky Blinders (TV)
Genre: Angst, Gen, Mentions of self-harm
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-01
Updated: 2019-09-01
Packaged: 2020-10-05 01:23:00
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,121
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20480648
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/HazelNMae/pseuds/HazelNMae
Summary: Written for Anon request including Tommy's adult son who helps him navigate his mental health.





	My Father's Son

Being Tommy Shelby’s son was difficult for a number of reasons. He was strict, set high expectations, and watched you like a hawk. But the most difficult thing about being his son was watching him suffer.****

As the eldest child, you can’t remember a time when your father was well.

Your whole life he’d struggled with mental illness. When your mother was alive, she’d insisted he see various therapists and reminded him daily to take his prescription. It was tough being a child at Arrow House–your nanny and mother constantly shuffling you around the house, from room to room, begging you to stay quiet so as not to upset your father. Few memories of him don’t involve his anger. He’d never really directed it toward you, but you’d seen him lose his temper enough to stay out of his way.

When your mother fell ill, you found yourself more concerned for your father’s well-being than hers. She’d made her peace with the terminal diagnosis, but your father couldn’t. He’d paid for the best doctors, top of the line treatments, and trips around the world to visit renowned oncologists. In the end, though, his money and power couldn’t save her. 

The day after her funeral began the worse spiral you’d ever seen your father experience.

For three weeks, he barely made an appearance in public. It was your first year at uni and you had grown accustomed to stopping by his office on occasion for lunch. But for those three weeks, he was never in the office when you stopped by. His assistant even expressed concern that he’d barely responded to important emails and didn’t seem invested in the major projects the company had on the docket.

You reminded her your mother had just passed. 

“Of course,” she’d said. “I’m not suggesting he shouldn’t be grieving, but have you ever seen Tommy Shelby neglect his work? I mean, doesn’t he usually throw himself head first into it when he is in a personal crisis?”

It was that comment that had prompted you to visit the palatial estate where you were raised to check on him yourself. 

What you found was not your father. 

It was a shell of the man you knew as Tommy Shelby.

He’d let his facial hair grow unkempt. Had barely eaten for weeks. Had smoked more cigarettes and drank more whiskey than you’d ever seen him consume.

It was then that you told your father you needed him to check in with you daily. He was hesitant at first, of course. He was too proud to let his son assume the caretaker role. But after you pointed out all of the empty cigarette packs and spent whiskey bottles around the room, and had told him what his assistant said, he agreed, however reluctantly. 

He didn’t reach out the next day. So you texted him instead.

And for the two months that followed, you texted or called him daily. 

Most days he put on a brave face. He eventually pulled himself together enough to shave and put on a nice suit. He went back to work. Started a few new projects. Eventually throwing himself fully into the job. 

It wasn’t healthy, but it was at least more familiar behavior.

When things slowed down for the company, at the behest of your great aunt Polly, your father tried to take a vacation. He went golfing. Tried fishing. Even boarded a plane for America to visit your cousin Michael.

But none of that seemed to provide any solace to your father. In fact, he seemed to retreat further into himself than ever before. Without the demand of his extra time, he went straight home from work and drank himself into a stupor, finally sleeping only when he passed out.

On one such evening, your father texted you. In itself, the act was strange. You almost always initiated conversation with him–rarely did it go the other way. But this was even stranger still as he only said, “I love you. Please don’t forget that.”

The text was disturbing enough that you sprinted from your flat, hopped into your roommate’s car, and drove the 30 miles to Warwickshire.

The door was locked and your father had moved the spare key out from under the mat. You ran around to the back and banged on the door until his housekeeper answered.

“Where’s dad?” You asked, in a flushed panic.

“Why, (Y/N), what’s wrong?” Frances asked with a furrowed brow.

“I just need to know where he is,” you answered as you pushed past her and up the stairs. You flung open the door to your father’s bedroom, but it was empty. Several empty whiskey glasses were littered about the room.

You sped back downstairs, fully out of breath now but running on adrenaline and fear. 

You tried the door to his office, but it was locked. 

You sent him a text. 

“Dad, where are you?”

No sooner had you pressed ‘send’ that you heard the ding through the door.

Rearing back and running full force, you dropped your shoulder into the door and knocked it through, busting the lock through the casing.

There he was, your father. The inimitable Tommy Shelby. The King of Birmingham. 

His small frame was curled up on the floor in front of the fireplace. A bottle of gin spilled on the carpet beside him. His cell phone, still opened to your text exchange, in his hand.

You were afraid to check, but needed to know.

You placed your hand on his neck.

A pulse.

He flinched at your touch and turned to look at you, grunting.

“(Y/N),” he mumbled.

You pulled him up by his lapels and leaned him against the sofa. 

It took a few minutes, but he eventually came to. 

“Why didn’t you just let me die?” He asked through his hands as they covered his face.

The anger began to rise in you. You’d been scared when you entered the room. That had morphed to sadness when you saw the state of him. But now, it was anger you felt. Rage, actually.

You ripped his hands away from his face and slapped him hard–as hard as you’d ever hit anyone, in fact. 

Tears began to stream down your face.

“I fucking love you, dad,” you whispered, barely able to force it out at all.

He scrambled to his feet and pulled you up with him. 

And in the most touching show of emotion you’d ever seen him exhibit, he pulled you, hard, into a hug. 

He fell apart. Sobbing. His shoulders shaking.

You followed suit.

“I’m so sorry, (Y/N),” he said, still clutching you. “I fucking love you, too, son.”


End file.
